


The Art of Dragon Warfare

by starbursts_and_kisses



Series: Fly Me to the Moon [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Scary wives, Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:39:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbursts_and_kisses/pseuds/starbursts_and_kisses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Arya Stark tried to kill Aegon Targaryen and failed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Dragon Warfare

**Author's Note:**

> The summary isn't as serious as you think, I promise :)

 

_**One** _

There are three things Arya Stark knows. One – she is stuck in the middle of the Great Hall, wearing an elaborate, monstrous gown with an estimated worth of forty thousand golden dragons, and she is dancing with a man who now has the right to call himself her husband. Two – there are seven daggers hidden beneath the laces of her gown – two strapped to her thighs and held together by the ribbons in her stockings, two on both arms, one on her waist, one in between her breasts, and one cleverly concealed as a cross-shaped pendant. And three – a certain, smiling prince is going to die today. 

Said prince twirls her around the dance floor, oblivious to the ominous thoughts swirling in her head, and leans in close enough to whisper in her ear, “Why the long face, my love? This is supposed to be the most joyous occasion in your life, yet here you are looking as though you are going to a funeral rather than to your own wedding.” 

Arya smiles venomously at him in response and painfully stomps on his toe with the heel of her shoe in a way that makes it look like an accident, and furiously whispers back, “I am wearing a crown made of blue roses and a gown large enough that an entire army could hide inside and no one would be the wiser. So forgive me, _my love,_ ” She spits the words as though they are poison, prompting Aegon to wince at her, “if I cannot bring myself to summon enough joy to satisfy you.” 

“Come now, Arya,” Aegon says soothingly, smiling winsomely at her in the hopes of coaxing her out of her foul mood. “Be reasonable. Today is our wedding day. Did you really expect that you’d be able to get away with wearing breeches on an important day such as this?” 

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” Arya hisses at him, her grip on Aegon’s shoulder tightening even further as the music swelled to a dramatic point and they are pulled deeper into the thick of the dance. “Does my answer displease you? Allow me to remind you then that I am not like most ladies, something that I’m sure you must know by now, given the fact that you presume to know me so well that you would remind me of it every chance that you get. I shall not be appeased by pretty little things and fancy dresses, my lord, and I most certainly will not consent to being paraded around in this ridiculous farce of a wedding hall like some treasured war prize yours for the taking.” 

Aegon laughs at her, a soft, trilling sound so deceptively beautiful that, were it not for the present circumstances, it would have stunned even Arya into silence. “I do know that,” he tells her magnanimously, kissing her lightly on the tip of her nose and swerving just in time to avoid Arya’s hand as it sought to meet his jaw. “And I love you all the more for it.” 

His declaration is met with a sullen glare. “If you truly love me,” Arya snarls at him, “then you wouldn’t dare subject me to this kind of torture. Whatever happened to ‘ _I promise not to force you to do anything that you don’t want to do’?”_  

Aegon grimaces. “Ah, about that,” he begins to say, looking contrite. “I am sorry. But surely you must realize that this whole thing isn’t entirely my fault. My father was the one who made himself in charge of this wedding. He planned everything – from the food down to the guest list –because for some reason, he is determined to make this the greatest wedding the Seven Kingdoms has ever seen. And though I am sympathetic to your plight and would love nothing more than to come to your aid, well… I am not king yet. I cannot go against my father’s wishes. Besides,” He flashes her a quick smile, and this time his eyes travel to her tightly laced, jewelry-encrusted bodice and rouge-stained lips. “You look so lovely and deliciously tempting in that gown, I find it a little hard to resist showing you off to everyone.” 

“And is that supposed to sway me?” Arya furiously says, her eyes narrowing into tiny slits. “Gods, Aegon, for the love you bear me, get me out of this wretched dress right now!” 

“Ah, are you that eager to undress in front of me?” Aegon teases her, shooting her a lazy grin. “Why, you only need say the word, my lady, and we could skip the feast entirely and proceed with the bedding at your command.” 

“Why you… you…” Arya sputters, her cheeks flushing an unholy shade of red even against her will. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t slit your throat right this instant, Aegon Targaryen!” 

Her husband shrugs, looking unconcerned at the apparent threat to his life, and responds, much to Arya’s chagrin, by pulling her even closer to him in a manner that would have made even Septa Mordane blush. “I’ll give you two reasons,” he whispers to her. “ _One,_ you’ll miss me when I’m gone.” He ignores the disgusted look his wife shoots him and continues, “And _two,_ my father is heading in this direction as I speak and I doubt that he would take kindly to seeing his only son murdered right before his very eyes.” 

Arya glances over her shoulder just in time to see the crowd part before them, revealing the striking form of King Rhaegar, his silver hair and kingly visage unmistakable even at this distance. When he reaches the newly wed couple in the middle of the dance floor, he gives them a small smile and nods at them in greeting. 

“Son,” he calls out affectionately to Aegon as he claps him lightly on the shoulder. “Forgive me for the interruption, but would you mind if I stole your bride for a moment?” 

“Not at all, Father.” 

King Rhaegar turns towards Arya and bows at her, his movements as graceful as a water dancer. “My good daughter,” he says. “Would you care to indulge an old man and allow me the honor of having this dance? I promise to deliver you safely back to my son in just a moment.” 

Arya, left with no other choice than to abandon her thoughts of killing and early widowhood, drops into an awkward curtsy and allows the king to lead her by the arm. “Yes, of course, Your Grace,” she murmurs, but not before shooting Aegon a reproachful look behind his father’s back. The fool only smiles indulgently at her and mouths back, “Have fun, lovely wife!” 

“You look radiant tonight, my dear,” the king tells her warmly, forcing her mind back to the present and driving all murderous thoughts of Aegon out of her head. “I am delighted to have you as a new addition to our family. I hope that married life suits you well.” 

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Arya says automatically, keeping her expression carefully blank. 

“Oh, none of that ‘Your Grace’ formality now,” Rhaegar admonishes her with an amused shake of his head. “You and I are family now, Arya. It would please me greatly to hear you call me ‘Father’ from now on.” 

 _I already have a father. I don’t need another one,_ Arya thinks exasperatedly to herself. But she bites her tongue and forces herself to smile back at the king, who in turn, looks knowingly at her as though he can guess exactly what she is thinking and says, “You can speak freely with me, good daughter. My son says you are an honest woman, which is exactly what one might expect from Eddard Stark’s daughter, and so you need not fear that I will punish you for saying what is on your mind. You see, I have lived all my life in a court full of sycophants and liars, and I find myself weary of it all. So indulge me, my dear, and tell me what you truly think.” 

Arya frowns. _What a strange man, King Rhaegar._ So she blurts out the first thing that comes to her mind. “I confess that I don’t understand you at all, Your Grace,” she tells him with all the bluntness her once six-year-old self possessed. “Aegon says you once had your mind set on betrothing him to his sister Rhaenys, but upon hearing of his proposal to me, you were quick to change your mind. Why? Is it because I look like her? My aunt, I mean? Father does not have the heart to say it to my face, but I can tell that he thinks that way.” 

The king looks at her with infinitely sad eyes – the eyes of one who is continually haunted by a past he can no longer reclaim– and lets out a soft sigh. Looking at him now, at the downward curve of his mouth and the slight slope of his shoulders, Arya is struck by a sudden realization. Rhaegar Targaryen is the saddest man in the world, and she feels sorry for him. 

“Tis true. You look a lot like her. Like… Lyanna.” He says her aunt’s name with a reverence and tenderness that is at once heartbreakingly beautiful and sad, and Arya can’t help but think that though King Rhaegar may have won the war, he has, in truth, gained nothing. What a terrible thing for a man to have. 

“But… how can that be true? People say my aunt was beautiful, and I am… Well, I am…” 

Rhaegar smiles at her. “You are as lovely and enchanting as your aunt, never doubt that,” he tells her. “And you inherited not just her looks. In truth, you are as brash and headstrong and willful as Lyanna, and when I look at you, I see a girl with fire in her veins and courage in her heart. And you and my son… You share a different fate. I am thankful for that. Perhaps what the gods denied Lyanna and I, they gave back to you instead. Fate often works that way, does it not?” 

“I’m afraid I don’t believe much in fate, Your Grace.” 

“Father. Call me Father,” Rhaegar corrects her gently. “You may not believe in it, but I do. There is a reason you and my son met in a dungeon full of dragon skulls all those years ago. You and Aegon, you’re meant to be together. I used to curse the gods for not sparing Lyanna’s life, for having denied me the pleasure of her company for so many years after I fought so valiantly for the right to stay by her side, but perhaps there is a greater purpose for all of this. Mayhaps the gods aren’t so cruel, after all.” 

Arya says nothing. What is left for her to say, after a heartfelt declaration such as that? 

“My Aegon is a good man, Arya. He has his faults, but when he loves, he loves truly and deeply, something that I’m afraid he inherited from me,” Rhaegar tells her as the dance abruptly draws to an end. “Take care of him for me, will you?” And with those final parting words, the king gives her one last bow, smiles, and deposits her straight into her husband’s waiting arms. 

Aegon takes one look at her expression and asks, “Still in the mood to kill me now?” 

“Oddly enough, no,” Arya finds herself saying with an honesty that could only have come from talking too long with Rhaegar Targaryen. 

Her husband’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “For true?” he asks her, hardly daring to believe it. “What in gods’ name did my father tell you?” 

Arya merely shrugs. “That, my dear husband, is a secret.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Two**

Aegon sighs, wearily rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, and stumbles into his bedchamber, half-asleep and driven mad to exhaustion. _Curse this whole ruling business,_ he thinks to himself. _Why couldn’t I have been born a sellsword instead?_ He allows himself a moment to indulge in the tempting vision of him living a life somewhere off in Essos, with nothing but the clothes on his back and a sword on his hand, sailing the Narrow Seas with Arya by his side. It is a good life, he cannot help but think, and he is sure that they would both be happier there – happy to live and laugh and fuck and do as they please – but instead, Aegon is cursed with this life. 

He is not even king yet, but already the demands of being part of the small council, coupled with the duties that one might expect from an heir apparent, is slowly beginning to take its toll on him. Tonight alone he had been forced to listen to Jon Connington and the rest of the members of the council discuss something as mundane and as uninteresting as sewer management, and all the while he had sat there and pretended to nod at the right moments, when in fact all he could think about was the wife waiting for him in his chambers. 

 _Thank the gods for Arya,_ he inwardly says. His wife is the one brilliant part of his life, and if not for her, he probably would have gone mad a long time ago. He stares at her quiet sleeping form – at her slightly parted lips and the soft rise and fall of her chest – and feels that same wonder he felt when he first heard Arya agree to becoming his wife on that fateful, snowy day in Winterfell. 

With a contented sigh, Aegon starts to undress, leaving him only clad in his breeches, and quietly makes his way on his side of the bed. He pulls the furs up to his chin and automatically reaches for his wife, careful not to wake her, but no sooner had he made contact with her skin than he felt a sudden, blurring motion, and the next thing he knows, Arya is half-sitting, half-lying on top of him, wielding a frighteningly sharp blade to his throat.

“Seven Hells, woman!” Aegon cries out, his heart hammering in his chest. “You gave me a fright! What in gods’ name are you doing with that knife? Are you trying to kill me?” 

His wife meet his thoroughly shocked gaze with calm, grey eyes and simply says, “That was the idea, yes.” 

The coldness in her voice startles Aegon, but when he tries to reach for her, Arya’s only response is to press the blade of her dagger even deeper against his neck, leaving behind a thin trickle of blood that is barely enough to stain their fur covers a deep red. “Alright. So you’re mad at me,” he says slowly in what he hopes is a calm, reasonable tone. “What have I done wrong this time, my brilliant little she-wolf?” 

The bland expression on Arya’s face does not change, but her eyes tell him a completely different story. There are storm clouds gathering in those eyes, and something about the way they remain fixed on Aegon unnerves him so. He gulps. The last time she had looked at him like that was when she had overheard Tyrion Lannister talking to him about the location of his favorite whorehouses in King’s Landing, something that Aegon had failed to appreciate at that time. In fact, it had taken all of Aegon’s charm and negotiation skills to convince Arya not to sic her dragon on the Imp. 

“Arya,” he tries once more. “How can I properly apologize to you if you don’t even tell me what it is you think I’ve done wrong?” 

That forces a reaction out of her. She lets out a derisive laugh and scowls at him, and for some reason, he is reminded of the look on Ned Stark’s face the moment Aegon wrapped the black-and-red Targaryen cloak on his daughter’s shoulders on the day of their wedding. “You don’t even know what you’ve done wrong?” she screeches in disbelief. “Perhaps I should save you the effort of explaining and kill you right this very instant. Rickon would be delighted to hear the good news.” 

“Oh, I’ve no doubt about that. Your brothers would all rejoice and throw a huge feast upon learning of my demise and your newfound status as a widow. But thankfully, I can draw small comfort in the fact that your sister and your mother would mourn me, at the very least,” Aegon says wryly. 

“Are you so eager to die, then?” 

The sardonic expression instantly vanishes from Aegon’s face. “Arya, come now, tell me what’s wrong,” he says, sounding serious for once. 

Arya glares at him and then finally spits out, “I saw you with her.” 

“With who?” 

“With Arianne fucking Martell, who else?” she growls at him. “I saw the way she was looking at you this morning. She practically wanted to devour you for breakfast. And you,” She grits her teeth and stares at him with those eerie piercing eyes of hers. “You stupid idiotic prince... You were flirting right back! If I didn’t get on so well with Oberyn Martell, I would have stabbed his niece with a butter knife before the main course was even over!” 

Aegon gapes at her, a disbelieving look on his face. “ _That’s_ what you’re mad about?” He wants so desperately to laugh at her and at the absurdity of her claim, but Arya has still not relinquished the hold on her dagger, and an Arya Stark in possession of a dagger is a very dangerous woman indeed. He sighs patiently. “Arya, believe me, I wasn’t flirting with Arianne. She’s my cousin and I would never in a million years –” 

“Oh, don’t you dare give me that excuse! You of all people! Do you think I’m stupid?” Arya continues to yell at him. “I followed you right after we broke our fast, thinking perhaps that I was wrong. Imagine my surprise when I found you sneaking around with your oh-so-sweet cousin in the stables, when I so distinctly remember you telling me that you’d be accompanying Dany on her visit to Flea Bottom, to help her distribute bread and alms to the poor. Flea Bottom my arse! For a prince, you are _such_ a liar.” 

Aegon flushes at that and takes no offense whatsoever at the idea of his wife following him around like one of Varys’ little spies. “Arya, it’s… it’s not what you think…” he chokes out, his face turning as crimson as a Lannister’s coat of arms the longer he tries to explain things. “I wasn’t-” 

“Spare me your pathetic excuses, Aegon Targaryen,” Arya says, but beneath her frosty voice Aegon could detect a bit of hurt in it. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose and desperately wills himself to think of the right words to remedy the situation. _You’re a fool, Aegon,_ he admonishes himself. But finally, he takes a deep breath and finds the courage to move. He cups her cheeks with both hands, feeling Arya bristle at the contact, and stares straight into her eyes and says, “Arya, I promise you on my mother’s grave that I am _not_ cheating on you with Arianne Martell. There is no other woman that I love as much as I love you. Can you not see that?” 

For just an instant, Arya’s grip on her dagger loosens and an uncertain look crosses her face. “But I saw you…” 

Aegon sighs. “You saw me talking to Lady Arianne, that is all,” he finally confesses. “But the reason I lied to you and went behind your back is not because I’m having an affair with her. I wrote to her a fortnight before her journey to King’s Landing to ask her for a favor.” 

“What kind of favor?” Arya asks him suspiciously. 

“I asked her for a Dornish sand steed, the fastest and strongest one they could find in her father’s stables. And the reason I was being so secretive about it was because I meant to present it to you as a gift on your coming name day,” Aegon explains. “It was supposed to be a surprise, but now it’s all ruined.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yes, oh.” 

There is a long silence. And then Arya abruptly lets go of the knife, almost impaling Aegon in the stomach in the process, and lets out a soft cry, her face turning startlingly pale with both a mixture of horror and contrition. “I… I…” she stammers out. Then she throws her arms around Aegon’s shoulders with a force that leaves him gasping for air and buries her face in the crook of his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe I wounded you over nothing and I… I… oh, gods, I’m really sorry…” 

Aegon hugs her back and kisses the top of her head in an attempt to show her that he bears no grudge against her. “It’s alright, it’s alright,” he says soothingly, stroking her hair and rocking her against him. “I’m not mad. I’m just glad you didn’t go through with your plans to murder me.” 

Arya slowly peeks at him behind her long curtain of hair and looks at him almost shyly. “Really? You aren’t mad? Even after I accused you of adultery and almost slit your throat in anger?” 

The prince laughs. “On the contrary, I’m rather touched at the lengths you would go to in order to show me that I’m yours,” he tells her with a stupid, giddy smile on his face. “And I must confess, the thought of you being jealous on my behalf makes me happy. Do you know how attractive you are when you’re jealous? I never knew you liked me so much.” 

Arya playfully slaps him on the shoulder before snuggling deeper into his embrace. They stay like that for a long time, Arya’s face buried against his neck and Aegon humming contentedly under his breath, the stress of today’s events now safely buried and forgotten. 

Then Arya lifts her head from his neck and gives him an adorable look, the exact same look that he has seen Nymeria use whenever she is in the mood to beg for a treat, and hesitantly asks him, “Aegon?” 

“Yes, my love?” 

“If you’re no longer mad at me, does that mean that I can still have the sand steed?” 

There is a pause. Then Aegon kisses her soundly on the lips and murmurs, “But of course. I’ve given you a dragon before. So what makes you think there is anything in this world, least of all a sand steed, that I could ever deny you?”

 

 

* * *

  

 

**Three**

At the sound of the doors opening, King Aegon looks up from the map on his table and almost drops his wine cup in surprise. He blinks twice just to make sure he has not completely gone mad, but the mirage in front of him does not disappear, and once again he is greeted with the vision of his wife furiously striding towards him, looking utterly resplendent in a gown of Myrish red lace, a thin blade dangling casually by her side. 

He could count on one hand the number of times he has seen Arya wear a gown out of her own free will, but apparently, today is one of those rare times. Aegon wonders what he has done in his past life to deserve such a reward, but as Arya’s small but intimidating form comes closer, he realizes that her sudden transformation could only mean one thing. And it is not something good. There is a prominent scowl on Arya’s face and, for someone who has not seen her husband in two moons, she does not look happy at all. 

 _Seven save me,_ Aegon inwardly says, muttering a quick prayer to the gods above as he watches Arya come to a complete stop in front of him. 

“Welcome back to King’s Landing, Your Grace,” she greets him with all the sweetness of a Tyrell rose in full bloom. “You have been deeply missed.” 

 _Oh no,_ Aegon suddenly realizes with horror. _Oh no, oh no, oh no._ He had already anticipated that Arya would be mad at him by the time he came back from Pyke, but this? This is infinitely worse. The only time Arya calls him “Your Grace” is when she is feeling mad enough to murder him in his sleep. 

“I have missed you as well, my beloved little wolf,” Aegon says quickly, shooting her a nervous smile. “How was your trip to Highgarden?” 

Arya ignores the question and looks instead at the long line of guards behind Aegon. “Leave us,” she commands them, and without even waiting to be told twice, they file out of the room, all of them eager to escape the queen’s wrath. Aegon only wishes he could be as lucky as them. 

“Alright, we might as well get this over with,” Aegon mutters under his breath as he takes another sip of his wine. “I know you are wroth with me, Arya, and you have every right to be. But I want you to know that I –” 

“Save it,” his lovely wife snaps back, looking at him as though she is about to breathe fire from her mouth.

Aegon groans and wearily hangs his head in acceptance of his fate. “Alright, exactly how mad are you? Surely you are not angry enough to kill me?” 

“What makes you think I haven’t already poisoned you?” Arya asks him casually, shooting a pointed look at the wine cup in his hand. 

Aegon chokes, nearly spitting the wine out of his mouth, and gives Arya a horrified look. “If I didn’t know you so well, I’d think you were actually being serious,” he says with a resigned shake of his head. “But unfortunately, I do know you well. If you truly wanted to kill me, you’d use one of your beloved blades, not poison.” 

“If you know me as well as you think you do, then perhaps you’d know how deeply your deception would affect me,” Arya all but screams at him, her hands clenched tightly into fists. 

“Look, Arya, I’m sorry –” 

“No,” Arya growls at him, her red mouth curled into a snarl. She looks ferociously beautiful even despite her anger, and for a moment, Aegon is tempted to allow himself the luxury of being distracted by her beauty. “No, you do not get to say you’re sorry. You do not get to say that. Not after what you did. _You_ left me, Aegon. You deceived me and made me believe that my sister needed my help in Highgarden, when all the while you were planning on marching off alone to Pyke to put an end to the rebellion. By the time I realized what you’ve done, it was already too late. I could not go. You even stole Rhaegal from me so I could not follow you.” 

“I’m sorry, Arya. Truly, I am,” Aegon says with all the sincerity of a man who just wants to be on good terms with his wife. “But you left me with no other choice. You would not listen to reason, no matter how many times I pleaded with you to let me go alone, and short of dragging you off to Highgarden in chains, there was nothing else I could have done to stop you.” 

This only manages to anger Arya further. “What, did you think I couldn’t handle myself?” she spits at him. “I am a warrior, Aegon. I am your Visenya. Or have you forgotten that? Did you think that just because I had grown to like you after all these years, it would be easier now to make me do your bidding? If you regret marrying me now and wish to have a wife as sweet-tempered as my sister, then you had best draw up the divorce papers and save me from all this trouble.” 

The king looks at her in alarm. “Why are we suddenly talking about divorce? I don’t want any other wife except you!” he passionately declares. “Arya, I know how fierce you are, and I have not forgotten how instrumental you were in helping me quell the first Greyjoy rebellion. I did not send you off to Highgarden because I think you incompetent. I sent you off for your own safety. Had this rebellion happened any other time, I would have gladly asked you to stay by my side, but things are different now. You’re with child now, Arya, and I would not endanger you or my heir unnecessarily. Please, you must understand that.” 

Arya scoffs. “Pah!” she exclaims. “So what? I am only three moons along. Does that make me a cripple now? I beg to differ. And what’s so bad about going to battle with a child in my belly? Tis better this way, I say. Our child would grow up to be a warrior anyway, so the sooner he is exposed to battle, the better it would be for him.” 

Aegon rises from his seat and reaches for his wife’s hands. “You know I can’t risk you and the child like that,” he admonishes her in a soft voice. “You both mean too much to me for me to even consider that.” 

Arya snatches her hands from his grasp and scowls at him. “You presume too much, Your Grace,” she says stiffly. “I still haven’t forgiven you for what you did. And I am so angry, so terribly angry that now that you have escaped from Pyke unscathed, I have half a mind to kill you myself and have our child be raised by a smith or a stable boy instead.” 

Aegon shrugs off Arya’s idle threats of murder to his person, having already grown used to his wife’s strange antics in all the years that he’d known her, and smiles at her instead. He has found, much to his utter delight, that the only surefire way to get Arya to calm down is to be his usual charming self. When that fails, well, he could always call the Kingsguard for help. 

He looks at his wife in amusement. “So are you saying that you want to kill me precisely because I survived?” 

Some of the harshness leaves Arya’s face at the sight of his familiar half-grin. “No, you stupid!” she shouts at him, beating him on the chest with her fists. “The reason I want to kill you is because you left me feeling as though I would rather die than see you dead.” 

And in a move that takes everyone by complete surprise, Arya does the impossible. She bursts into tears and throws herself at Aegon, all dignity and earlier threats of violence finally forgotten. It isn’t long before she realizes exactly what her pregnancy is making her do, and when she does, it only makes her cry even harder. 

“Oh, you vile, evil man! I hate you! I want to kill you so badly, and gods, why am I even crying…? Why won’t I stop crying? I… _Oh –”_

“There, there,” Aegon comforts her as best as he can, wrapping his arms around his wife’s fragile frame and tenderly kissing her tears away. “Look what I made you do. I’m sorry for everything, little wolf. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?” 

Arya doesn’t answer him, and merely hugs him tighter, sniffling quietly to herself and staining the front of his shirt wet with her tears. “You could have died, Aegon,” she repeats over and over again, her voice as brittle as newly forged dragonglass. “You could have died and then where would that leave me? I’d be left with this _stupid_ crown, ruling this godforsaken kingdom and raising our child all by myself, and oh, I’d probably have to marry someone else and, damn it, I hate being with child. Look at me, crying like a baby –” 

Aegon chuckles at her. “Stop right there, Arya,” he says. “Let’s make one thing clear, alright? You are _not_ going to marry someone else. I won’t allow it. You and I are going to rule this realm for a very, very long time, I promise you that. And in the event that you do manage to find yourself saddled with another husband, you can rest assured that even as a ghost I will haunt him to an early grave. Not even death can tear me away from you.” 

“Perhaps I am mad then, for loving a fool like you,” Arya whispers into his chest. 

“Oh, my love,” Aegon tells her, his lips curving upwards into a smile. “You are a Targaryen now. It is perfectly within your rights to be mad.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Four**

“Where is he? Where is that miserable coward?” 

Loras Tyrell takes one long look at the ominous expression on Her Grace’s face and visibly winces. He may be one of the best knights this realm has ever seen, gallant and considered to be brave by many, but at this moment, he wishes more than anything that there is a ground big enough to swallow him whole. He hates being on guard duty when the queen is in a terrible mood. She is worse than Tywin Lannister and Aerys Targaryen put together when provoked, and when that happens, there is no room in the Red Keep big enough for all of them to hide in so that they may all safely escape her wrath. 

For the most part, Loras likes being a knight of the Kingsguard. He likes serving King Aegon, and not just because he is handsome to look at, although that is one factor he must definitely take into consideration. In fact, sometimes if he is lucky, he might even catch glimpses of His Grace walking around naked in his chambers, something that constantly infuriates Renly to no end. Aegon is kind too, and is quick to smile and laugh at his japes, something which the late Rhaegar Targaryen had not done when he was still alive. So it comes as a real pity to him, then, to find out that the king he now serves is married to a madwoman. 

Said madwoman looks at him with murder in her eyes and demands once more, “Where is he? Is he inside? I need to speak with him right now!” 

“Your Grace, I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you to come in –” 

“Stand aside, Ser Loras,” Arya says in a voice that would not take no for an answer. “Or I shall make you.” 

“Please, Your Grace,” the alarmed Kingsguard shouts, moving swiftly to block the door with a desperation that comes from one who has witnessed too many fights between the wolf and the dragon. “The king specifically asked not to be disturbed –” 

Arya pays no heed to his words and pushes her way past him and into the king’s private council chamber. The Knight of Flowers hurries after her in one last attempt to stop her, but unfortunately for him and the king, it is already too late. 

“ _You!”_ the queen exclaims the moment she sees the source of her vexation. 

The king looks up from the documents he has been signing, and when he sees the queen, all the color immediately drains from his face. “Arya, what...?” 

He turns to Ser Loras with a betrayed expression on his face, but the Knight of Flowers only stares back at him with horror and gives an apologetic bow and shake of his head, as though to say, “I am sorry, Your Grace. But your wife frightens me more than you do.” 

“You abominable creature!” Arya shouts at him, poking him on the chest with one finger so that he is forced to slowly back away. “How _dare_ you steal my moon tea!” 

“What? Arya, I have no idea what you are talking about –” 

“Don’t you lie to me!” his wife lashes out at him, and the glare she sends him is enough to send even grown men running for the hills. “I know you did it! You stole my moon tea and emptied out the maester’s supply in the castle. I dare you to deny it. Oh, I dare you!” 

Aegon smiles nervously at the enraged queen and raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, perhaps I may have been a little too hasty in denying the part that I played in the disappearance of your moon tea,” he reluctantly admits. 

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do here,” Arya says with gritted teeth as she advances further on him. “You’re trying to get me with child again!” 

“No, I’m not!” Aegon quickly denies. “You wound me, dear lady. Are you suggesting that your esteemed and righteous king is capable of executing such underhanded trickery?” 

“More lies, Aegon, really? Is there nothing that comes out of your mouth now except lies?” 

Aegon lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Very well, then. I admit it. I stole your moon tea.” 

Arya narrows her eyes at that. “Are you mad?” she screams. “You’re trying to get me with child again when I only just gave birth to our son a year ago? What do you think I am, some farm pig who you can breed at your express leisure? Well, I won’t have it! I’m not having another one of your dragon spawns until I’m ready!” 

“But… I only… I just want…” 

Arya ignores the plaintive and childish expression on her husband’s face and spitefully tells him, “You’re just jealous our first child doesn’t look like you. I could probably pass him off as someone else’s son and people would still believe me.” 

Aegon scowls petulantly at her. “It isn’t fair, you know,” he grumbles. “I love our son dearly, but it would please me to have another child who looks like me. A little girl with silver hair and violet eyes, yes? How about that?” 

“No.” 

“Oh, come on, Arya. Just one more child–” 

“No.” 

“Please? Gods, must you really make me beg –” 

“I said _no_ , Aegon,” Arya cuts him off irritably. “And give me back my moon tea.” 

“Not until you agree to have another child with me.” 

Arya raises her eyebrow at that. “Is that a challenge? Fine. Have it your way then,” she says. “You might as well find another woman to warm your bed for you because I sure as hell am not sleeping with you until you give me back my moon tea.” 

Aegon lets out an almost inhuman wail at those words. “No! You can’t seriously mean that!” he exclaims, looking aghast. 

“Do I look like I’m japing with you, dear husband?”

“But Arya…”

“Hmm. Perhaps I should just take my pleasure elsewhere then?” Arya muses, resting one hand on her chin and pretending to think. “Edric Dayne is set on visiting the capital in a few days, and I’ve heard it said that he has taken a fancy to me ever since he saw me at the tourney at Riverrun a few years ago. Mayhaps he and I could –” 

“Stop!” Aegon shrieks in a horrified voice, covering his ears with his hands in an attempt to drown off Arya’s provoking words. “Stop it, you cruel temptress! Or else I shall tell our son what a horrid woman his mother is!” 

Arya huffs in annoyance. “Our son is _one,_ you idiot,” she snaps at him. “Do you honestly expect him to defend your honor and take your side when he can barely even speak?” 

“That’s completely besides the point! Our son is a smart child and takes after his father –” 

Ser Loras watches the scene in front of him with his mouth hanging wide open, and as the royal couple’s arguments further escalates, he quietly slinks out of the way and resumes his post outside the king’s chambers feeling as though he has just survived another war. 

He exhales and rubs a hand on his temple to quell his rising headache. _Gods, these people are insane,_ he thinks. _Perhaps I have made a huge mistake in joining the Kingsguard after all._

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is for those people who have been asking me for a three-quel to my previous one-shots "The Dragon and the Maiden Fair" and "To Wake a Sleeping Dragon". This is the last one I'm doing for this series, I promise! Haha. Consider it a Christmas present. I hope you like it! :D
> 
> Of course, my idea of a Christmas present involves writing about Rhaegar being all emo and fatherly and shit, and Loras perving on Aegon, so yeah, clearly I have issues. Lol. Happy holidays everyone! :D


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